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She nods. “Of course, boss.”
I silently enter the boardroom and pull the door behind me until it clicks shut. Every man around the table this afternoon is Bratva. Dmitri sits at one end of the conference room table, and I sit down at the other. It’s time for a progress report on the orders we carried out last night.
Dmitri starts the meeting by getting to the point. “Viktor, give us your report first.”
The young man fidgets before speaking to the group and looks as if he’d rather face an armed enemy.
“The Karamazov safe house is located a safe distance from its nearest neighbor,” he starts, haltingly at first, but his voice gains confidence with every word. “Around 4:00 a.m., I got out of a rented car and crept through the empty streets toward the house. I was told where the security cameras were located, so crossing the lawn and scaling the fence was easy. No one saw me.
“I climbed to the second floor and easily opened a bedroom window.” He clears his throat several times. “It wasn’t locked. My target was sound asleep in a queen-sized bed, unarmed, with a woman next to him. She spent the night sleeping in bed beside a corpse, unaware of what happened.”
A murmur of approval fills the room, and men heartily acknowledge Viktor’s first kill.
“Molodets, molodoi chelovek.” Dmitri claps his hands together a few times. “Nice and clean.”
The rest of the day is spent in my office. Legitimate business is hard work, but it’s not dangerous shuffling papers and listening to subordinates recite figures. By the end of the day, I’m over it. My thoughts wander back home, and I wonder how secure it is.
I swear Paige will never wake up to find me dead beside her. I shake my head at the thought.
I’ve accepted that death happens, but I’m determined to protect her from reality. Paige wants me to be normal and honest. To put away my gun and go straight. Paige wants me to die from boredom, not a bullet.
Would it be worth it to make her happy? It would make her happier than another necklace. She wrapped her arms around me when I handed her the car keys the other day.
Dmitri sticks his head in my office. “I’m ready to bounce when you are. One more piece of paper, and I might shoot something.”
I sigh, thinking about the look of relief in Paige’s eyes every time I return home. I’m eager to see that look today.
“Me too,” I reply, grabbing my jacket. “Let’s go.”
***
The sun is hanging low, casting a blinding streak of light across the horizon, and the traffic on the Thruway has finally come to a standstill. Miles ahead, an accident has blocked off all lanes, and traffic has been crawling for the last twenty minutes. Drivers sit idly in their cars, not knowing how long the delay will last or what exactly has happened up ahead.
A tall, middle-aged man in a baseball cap gets out of his pickup truck to look down the road. He stands on the yellow line between the stopped cars, shielding his eyes as he takes off his cap.
A woman in an idling Honda rolls down her window. “What’s going on?” she asks him.
“I can’t tell,” he replies, wiping his hand across his forehead. “I can’t see past the curve in the road. All I see are brake lights.”
She mutters a curse and switches her engine off. “I better save my gas.”
I feel their frustration, not knowing how long we’ll be stuck here. I can get a lot done with a Bratva army at my fingertips, but I have no control over man-made disasters or acts of nature. I have to sit and wait like the rest.
Slowly, reports of a collision involving an eighteen-wheeler come across the radio, but the details are few. The truck flipped over, blocking off all lanes, and the police stopped traffic on both sides. There are no reports on the other vehicles involved, how long this delay will be, or what actually happened.
“The Rovers can handle the rough terrain,” says Dmitri. “We can ride down the shoulder to the next exit.”
“How far is it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “About a mile and a half.” His brow furrows as he squints into the distance.
I shake my head. “No, we might end up stuck behind a bigger mess or a cop.”
I stare out the window at the rocky incline hemming us in. Past it, tall trees limit access to the suburban streets. The center of the road is separated by a row of concrete dividers placed there for roadwork.
My gaze searches, looking for any way that might provide an escape from this traffic jam, but I don’t want to barrel through some stranger’s pool party, no matter how badly I want to get home.
“I have no bars on my phone,” I tell Dmitri. “Must be everyone checking their phones.”
